Edge of the World
by Thistledownwind
Summary: AU. Sam stumbles into a world so removed from society that he feels like he’s dropped off the edge of the earth. Too bad he’s unaware it’s also the largest vampire community on earth. Light DS slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: First time writing (very light and slow) slash, so please be understanding. This is an AU (alternate universe) fiction, so Dean and Sam are not in any way related. **

**Warnings: Slash, but it's so vague and fluffy you can probably only see it if you squint. Vampires, violence, blood, foul language and booze.**

**Summary: Eventually light slash, AU. On the run, Samuel stumbles into a world so removed from civilised society that he feels like he's dropped off the edge of the earth. Too bad he's unaware it's also the largest vampire community on earth. **

**1.**

This was not the slummiest bar he had ever been in, but it was close. Very close. The door was practically off its hinges and most of the occupants were either dead to the world or reeling in a drunken stupor. And God, it smelt.

Sam wrinkled his nose in distaste and eyed his shot glass warily. It was scummy around the rim, and…shit, was that a _bloodstain _on the base?

The barman eyed his disgusted expression with a smug grin, and slid another shot across the bar to him. Sam looked up, glancing from the glass to the man apprehensively. The guy appeared to be in his twenties; stocky but not muscular, with platinum blonde hair and too tight jeans. _Very _gay, that one.

Not waiting for an invitation, said happy camper ambled over to where Sam sat, eyes roving over his body appreciatively. Sam resisted the urge to wince and shudder. He hoped he hadn't landed himself in a bat-for-the-other-team establishment. Fuck, he'd only needed a quick drink.

"So. What'cha doin' way out here, Dimples? Fell off the back of a lorry?"

Sam fixed the guy with a disgruntled, piercing look. Idiot. He threw back the contents of the shot glass in one quick movement, swallowing hard and feeling the blood rush to his head. Ignoring the burning in his throat, he eyed a particularly interesting burn in the wood of the bar before giving the courtesy of an answer.

"It's Sam. And I'm straight."

He said, coldly. The guy laughed, shrugged unconcernedly and drew up a stool seemingly from nowhere to sit opposite him, grinning. Sam maintained his vigil over the shot glass in stony silence, hoping against hope that if he ignored this particularly persistent scum of downtown, he would be left alone.

Apparently not.

"Well, Sammy, doesn' stop me lookin, now, does it? You got a cute face, ain't nothin' you can do bout it. Sides, was just a question. I'm Bill, by the by."

Sam supposed the dude couldn't help it if he constantly gave off the arrogant of impression of 'I don't like girls and I'm damn proud of it', so he decided to continue the rather one-sided conversation. Besides, this place was far, far away from the world where he had to lie about his name, age and life story to get a packet of Cheerios. The guy wasn't going to even remember him by morning, anyhow.

"I don't much care…Bill. Not that it's any of your business, but I guess I just stumbled in. I've got nowhere else to go. Can't afford it."

The risk, that was, not the money. Sam had plenty of money. Ill gotten money, but money none the less. Nobody gave a crap as long as it was vaguely green and had the picture of some old fart on it. Patriotic, him? Nope.

Meanwhile, Bill the barkeep dude was giving him a sceptical look, eying his freshly washed, well trimmed hair and clean shaven face with disbelief. Sam was also well aware that his casual and vaguely new clothing did not exactly scream hobo, either. Whatever.

"So…ya came here for…what? Place ta live?"

Bill asked, uncertainly, raising an eyebrow. Sam considered. Maybe. He only really ended up here because he'd been on the streets with a pocket full of stolen credit cards and a price on his head, not to mention a broken wrist. He hadn't been thinking things through, only that he had to get away, far away, and fast. Hence, here he sat, in the not-worst-but-almost slummiest bar he had ever been in.

"I guess. For a while."

He shrugged. An unreadable look passed through the barkeeper's eyes. Like he couldn't quite believe what Sam was saying. That was okay. Not many people ever did.

"You're on the run, huh, Dimps?"

Exasperated, Sam frowned at the seemingly sticking nickname, and shoved the shot glass back across the bar a little more forcefully than necessary.

"_Sam._ And you could say that."

'Bill' accepted this ambiguity for what it was; a subtle way of saying 'fuck off, none of your business'. But to him, everything was his business. He'd heard so many people's half mumbled life confessions that he probably knew everything there was to know about anyone who had passed through. They were all the same. Abuse, an affair, drug problem. This kid, though…with a face as cute as a button, but sharp, guarded eyes…this kid intrigued him.

"From what? Old flame? Mafia? Cops? Somebody's husband?"

Sam shook his head, slowly, dark bangs tossing gently around his face. It used to be shorter, this mop which he called hair. But he preferred it this length. It could hide his face, his eyes, himself. He sometimes wondered if he knew anything but how to hide and run.

"No, nothing like that."

Sam said, quietly, suppressing bad memories which threatened to claw their way back to the surface. He had come here to get away, not to dwell on the past. And now he wished this stupid man would leave him the hell alone. He didn't feel like talking today. Bill the barkeeper, however, was blissfully unaware of this.

"Well, ya can be sure they won't come a' lookin' round here. Not even the cops come visitin'."

Sam was almost interested. This place was out of the way, but he hadn't thought it was _that _out of the way. This might even turn out to be perfect.

"Why's that?"

He asked, the picture of unconcern. Maybe…maybe he could actually get used to this place. Stay a while. Meet some new people, make some friends (NOT including Bill the sodding camp barkeeper) live a life. It wasn't the nicest of places, he knew that, but it was out of the way. And if you didn't count being hit on, he hadn't been jumped or mugged or harassed yet.

"Ya could say this place is…out of the reach o' the law. To some, it's sanctuary. Some? Just plain hell. But hey…ya bring trouble in, it stays with you. Know what I'm sayin'?"

For some reason, a shiver crept along Sam's spine. He shook his head a little, and saw with some surprise that 'Bill' was looking at him with a completely serious expression. But still. Sanctuary or Hell, it was better than the alternative.

"Not really."

'Bill' glanced about, then leaned in closer to Sam, resting his elbows on the bar. Sam simultaneously leant back a little, wary, but the barkeeper seemed to have forgotten his initial goal of chatting his unfortunately naïve customer up.

"Ya wanna hear some advice, Dimps?"

Oh God, no, Sam thought, and he raised his eyebrows at the smirking barman.

"I've got a feeling you're going to impart it to me anyway."

Barman Bill chuckled (Sam had decided now; the dude's name would be Barman Bill. If he was going to call Sam stupid names then he would be rewarded in kind) and punched Sam's shoulder gently as though they were friends. Sam wrinkled his nose and shied away. He hated loud and overly friendly people.

"Ya talk pretty, Dimps. Well, ya look pretty too, but most folk around here only care for the latter. So my first piece o' advice? If ya can help it, don't open that pretty mouth. People won't like the way ya talk. Clear?"

It was good advice, Sam thought. He did speak in a way which would be foreign to most people around here. He might have to learn to slur a little and drop a letter here and there. Slightly disturbed that some guy he had just met was handing out the most logical advice he had heard in years, Sam shot Barman Bill a perturbed look.

"You're a very odd barkeeper."

Barman Bill grinned so widely it appeared his face might split in half, and he winked, letting out a brief burst of laughter.

"So I been told. Second, keep ya head down. Don't meet people's eyes. 'Specially not if they're taller than ya are. An'…I got a question for ya."

Sam blinked, taken aback at the sudden sobriety which had replaced the jovial tone of the conversation. Wait…why was he actually bothering to speak to some barkeeper, anyway? Oh, hell, never mind. He might learn something useful.

"What?"

He asked, attempting to appear unruffled. Barman Bill pursed his lips and gave Sam a searching look. He hesitated, made a feeble hand gesture, and cleared his throat gruffly.

"Do ya even _know _where ya are, Dimples?"

Sam frowned, and shook his head.

"No. I don't."

Barman Bill looked at him intensely for a long moment, then sighed, and hastily turned around and began to clean some shot glasses with a dirty cloth. Curious, Sam waited, and as expected, the barman eventually turned back around to look at him.

"Keep it that way."

He murmured, before continuing his self-employed task of trying to clean the scum from the glasses. Sam snorted quietly to himself. Now there was a cause in vain. Still, he couldn't say he wasn't unnerved by all this…well. There was just something about this place. From the moment he had passed through that long, dark tunnel, under the hillside…it had been like entering a different world, a different universe. It seemed so much darker here, the streets smaller, and everything had a sinister quality to it.

No cops ever came down here. That meant no specific rules…nothing holding people back. But he couldn't turn around now. There was no way he could go back, so…he had to make do. Feeling suddenly cold, he pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders and stood.

"Hey…how much do I owe you?"

Barman Bill glanced up, smirked vaguely, and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Eh, call it on the house, Dimps. Where ya gonna head to find…eh…'lodgings'?"

Sam blinked. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. He wasn't used to doing so, as his life was always changing, and he never knew what the next day would bring, so…he had never dared to make plans. He felt a small sense of excitement. This could be a new start. Maybe things would go right this time, for the first time.

"I don't know. I figured…I'd just have a look around. Maybe stay in a motel until I find the right place."

The barkeeper frowned, and leant across the bar, a frown twisting his features.

"Tell ya what, Dimps. This neighbourhood…ain't exactly safe for those out on their owns, y'know? Strangers are noticed. I know a place, a couple of blocks from here, a small apartment building, converted. Really small. Anyway, I heard the apartment on the top floor is free now. Some dude topped himself. But it's safe there, run by this tough old bird I know. Trust me, go there. It's not too pricey, either."

Sam was quiet for a moment, toying with his newfound game of 'think the future through'. It was nice, sort of. He supposed the suicide should bother him, really. But it didn't. He was accustomed to death, especially self-inflicted. People were in charge of their own lives; they had the right to decide when and how to end it, and you couldn't really blame them for that.

All things considered, he nodded briefly.

"Thanks, I think. What's it called?"

"Three blocks down, s'called Soerside Apartments."

Sam chuckled quietly. Soerside, Suicide. How ironic.

"Sounds charming. Thanks."

He muttered, sounding less enthusiastic than he felt. Barman Bill gave him a dazzling smile which set Sam's teeth on edge, and watched intently as Sam neatly replaced the bar stool and headed towards the door.

"Seeya around, Dimps."

He called gaily, his grin widening at the stiffening of the retreating back and the audible sigh of exasperation. And then the boy had gone, leaving the door swinging and a tantalising scent in his wake. Billy Yale frowned briefly, a finger straying to his teeth where an ache had begun to set in. He shuddered. No. Not here, not now.

Hearing a snort of disgust sound behind him, Bill turned to find a particularly unsteady looking man watching the still swinging door with a sour expression.

"Stupid kid. Wandering in. Hadn't he heard the warnings?"

Bill shook his head. It happened sometimes. People from far away just accidentally winding up here, if they were either brave, drunk or stupid enough to get through the tunnel. At least, that way, the only ones who made it would either survive for a long time or a very short time. It was better that way.

"Nah, he ain't stupid. Who knows? Maybe he'll get out alive. He seems like a survivor. There's something, in here."

Bill pointed to his own eyes, recalling the guarded, burning look in the stranger's dark eyes. There was something special there. Something worth saving. Maybe he'd even pray for this one.

"He's strong. The kid'll be okay. Besides, I sent him to Jill, at Soerside. She'll watch out for him."

The man gave him a disbelieving look, and downed a larger gulp than necessary from a pint glass before slurring out a reply.

"That old bat? She'll eat him afore _they_ do."

He said, bluntly. Bill thought of the young man, so alive, and untainted, in his own way. He shuddered violently, and hastily went back to cleaning his glasses beside the bar.

"Don' never say things like that. They might be listenin'."

&&&&&&&&

**So, worth continuing or dump in the trash? And sorry for the lack of Dean, he should be up next chapter if I continue. Please review and let me know if I should! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: An enormous thanks to all those who reviewed, it means a lot! **

**Warnings: Slash, but it's so slow and light you can probably only see it if you squint. Vampires, violence, blood, foul language and booze.**

**Summary: Eventually light slash, AU. On the run, Samuel stumbles into a world so removed from civilised society that he feels like he's dropped off the edge of the earth. Too bad he's unaware it's also the largest vampire community on earth. **

**2.**

Sam craned his neck upwards to survey the building. Hm. Not too bad, if a little old, and distinctly Gothic. It appeared to have once been a single house, possibly. Very dark red brick, with inky black railings and columns forming a balcony and a porch above the door. The paint was a little flecked, and the large brass knocker in the shape of some undefined beast caught mid-roar was faded and scratched, but apart from this the place seemed almost appropriate.

"Well, Sam my friend, it could be a hell of a lot worse." He muttered to himself, heaving a sigh and lugging his suitcase higher in his hand. The leather strap was worn and frayed and bit into his palm, chaffing the bare skin.

He made his cautious way up three steep steps to the large mahogany door (in need of some varnish), his breath condensing into steam in the cool night air. He stopped for a moment to admire a bristly foot-wiper in the form of a metal hedgehog with long, sharp spines, the nose broken off. Everything around here seemed tainted, in some form or another.

Reaching up, he grasped the oddly shaped knocker and slammed it against the wood neatly, once, twice, three times. Somewhere deep within the building, an echoing call resounded:

"Alright, I'm comin'!"

The voice sounded irate, a little scratchy, and female. Sam smiled weakly. He was generally better with women. They seemed to think he was someone to be coddled rather than someone to arrest and/or beat up. Some flirted with him, but he didn't mind, because he could beat them off, politely. Men were harder to shake.

Eventually, the door swung open a fraction with a creaking groan, and a pair of sharp grey eyes peered around the rim at him. He smiled, and clasped his hands in front of him with the suitcase, slipping easily into the role of 'oblivious sweetie in the wrong place at the wrong time'. Although this time, he was closer to actually being the character rather than having every intention of depriving the establishment of all it's money.

"Evening, madam. I was informed by a particularly dodgy and decidedly camp barman that I could find a free apartment here."

The door creaked open a little wider, revealing a short and stumpy woman with curling, pepper and salt greying brown hair. She wore a checked shirt, a black scarf and some pretty tatty looking jeans, but her features were sharp, intelligent and alert. Eyes narrowed, she looked him up and down, calculating.

Eventually, her expression softened to vague suspicion rather than open hostility. Sam was rather disappointed. Although obviously taken in by his innocent act, she had not fallen the 'hook, line and sinker' route like so many others before her. This neighbourhood might turn out to be a challenge. He liked challenges.

"You're an odd one. Billy sent you then? I'm Jill, the landlady, of sorts. Alrighty; you got the money? It's…oh…two hundred dollars a month, to you. Cash."

She spoke briskly and businesslike, with an odd, slurring accent that wasn't entirely unpleasant. Sam decided he liked her; well, in relation to many of the other people he'd met over the years. He never did entirely trust people. He'd never learned how. It was difficult to make friends while simultaneously watching your back.

Smiling with false nervousness and a dash of charm, he fumbled in his pocket for the excess of his last job. A very successful one. Finally retrieving two single bills, he handed them to her with implicit trust. He could spare it, anyhow.

"Thanks. That sounds good." He said gratefully, holding them out to her.

Her eyes widened as she took the money, peering at the two thin slips of paper, then holding them up to the light. She could evidently find no fault. Of course she wouldn't; the bills were one hundred percent genuine. They just weren't technically his.

She smirked, taking in his clean clothes and straight stance with a grudgingly impressed expression. Sam figured she would have been snide about it if he hadn't been maintaining his kicked puppy act.

"Come on in then, kiddybinks. It's mighty chilly out here. You stayin' long?"

Sam repressed a satisfied grin. Oh yes, he got her in the end. Hook, line and fucking sinker. Patience was ever a virtue.

"I don't know. Maybe." He murmured, shivering a little as she led him into a small, dark and sparsely decorated hallway lit by a single, flickering bulb which hung from the ceiling. Jill stuffed the bills into her breast pocket and brushed her hair from her eyes, her brow wrinkling into a frown.

"Well, come on up, then, and I'll show you the place. Quickly. Pull the door hard behind you, by the big handle."

Sam did so, flinching just slightly from the resounding slam. The place was quiet. No, not just quiet, it was _silent. _Completely. Not a creak, not a scratch, not a sound. It was unnerving.

Sam followed Jill the Landlady up a small, rickety flight of mahogany stairs which matched the door, beastly banister head and all. No chances of sliding down this unstable thing in the morning, then. It would probably collapse under his weight, which was considerable despite his scrawny build.

"You got any family round here? Friends? Car? Furniture, belongings, anything?"

Smiling weakly, Sam shook his head as Jill halted to catch her breath, puffing a little. She was clearly a smoker from the lingering smell of nicotine which clung to her like an aura.

"Just two small suitcases. Would you like me to carry that bag for you? It looks awfully heavy." He asked, noticing for the first time that she was swinging a battered looking shopping bag filled with varying bottles of alcohol from her hand.

Suddenly, she flushed red in the face and turned on him, gaining a height advantage from the two stairs difference between them.

"You're a right little bastard so and so, taunting and old hag like that. I can handle one fucking bag, I ain't that past it yet."

Smelling the traces of whiskey on her breath as she shouted in his face, Sam remained unfazed, merely bowing his head in apology and widening his eyes just a little.

"I'm sorry, I meant no offence." He muttered, managing to inject genuine apology into his tone. It wasn't all that difficult.

Jill blinked in surprise, and stared at him with amused bewilderment, her momentary madness passing as quickly as it had come. After a moment, she laughed, and turned to continue their slow progress up to the second landing.

"No. I've a good mind to think you didn't. Sorry. Being in this rancid dump this long makes a person senile, rotten. You'll see soon enough."

Glancing around the second landing as they stepped out onto it, Sam observed wood panelled walls, the pattern broken only by a single door which blended in quite nicely. Or it would have, had the varnish not been decimated to form a chaos of words and shapes and images.

Sam found he could not tear his eyes away from the thing. The writing was slanted and almost intelligible, but he recognised a few of the shapes. There was a pentagram near the top, and what looked like a skull near the centre. He swallowed, and tore his eyes away to find Jill looking at him with an unreadable look in her eyes.

"Not to seem forward, but who lives on the first and second floor?"

He really wanted to simply ask outright 'who lives here' but it seemed a little impolite. Jill drew in a deep breath, glanced at the door, shuddered violently and withdrew a cigarette from her jeans pocket. Flipping a lighter seemingly from empty air, she lit up and took a long, slow drag, a slight tremble in her fingers, before she answered a little shakily.

"I doubt you could seem 'forward' if you shouted the worst words you know in my face, littlun. First floor has two apartments, ones me, the other's Ernie. He's a pothead…sorry, druggie to you, button. Yes, that suits. Button."

Sam blinked in confusion, then rolled his eyes and threw his hands up into the air exasperatedly. Not _again. _He was SAM. S-A-M, es ay em, Sam. Was it so difficult?

"Why does everyone I meet have an inescapable urge to call me stupid nicknames, when I barely know them?"

She raised her eyebrows and gave his face an appraising look, then shrugged.

"Take a good look in a mirror and answer that question when you're wiser, sweetie. Anyway, Ernie keeps himself to himself. Don't bother with him and he won't bother with you. The second floor…"

Another long drag, and Jill closed her eyes tightly to avoid looking at the door. Sam, inexplicably, felt his heart begin to beat harder in his chest as the presence of the door immediately behind him made him feel uneasily. His back burned as though the door was glaring at him.

"Well, I…I don't really know much about him at all. Strange man. I don't know who he is or where he came from, just that his name, or the name he gave me, is Dean. And he's twenty six. That's all."

Sam watched dazedly as Jill stiffened and swung around to hurry up the flight of stairs to the third floor, feeling dizzy and light headed. Refusing to glance back over his shoulder, he raced after her, banging his knee against the banister as he passed. He didn't really feel the pain. Once safe in the seclusion of the upper landing, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and smiled shakily.

The third landing was a lot more welcoming than the second. A large window at the far end by the top of the stairs lit up the floorboards with moonlight, making it seem surreal. He didn't mind. He was just glad there were no scratchings in the walls up here.

Jill regarded him with a knowing look, and briefly patted him on the shoulder in sympathy.

"You steer clear of that one, button. He's trouble, if ever I saw trouble in the flesh. He plays odd hours, nocturnal. Seems like an insomniac, always clattering about. Just stay out of his way and pray he doesn't decide you're interesting."

For no good reason, Sam felt his heart plummet into his chest and his blood run cold. He forced out a confused smile.

"Why?"

Something dark flickered across Jill's gaze.

"Because that's what happened to Henry, God rest his soul. And look how he ended up."

Sam reckoned he knew what Jill meant. But he had to ask, anyway. He was compelled to.

"Henry?"

Jill jerked her head towards the plain door to the left of the stairs, which was thankfully unblemished, if a little faded. She dropped the burnt stub of her cigarette to the floor and stamped it out.

"Previous occupant of your apartment. I got help in clearin' out the body this mornin', but the smell is still a little nasty. Couldn't get the blood completely out of the carpet, either."

Sam dismissed the insignificant detail of the suicide in favour of something all the more interesting. He could practically feel his face light up with excitement at the prospect. Here he was, about to get long-term lodgings, for the first time since he could remember. And not only that, but…

"It has a carpet?" He said, the delight seeping into his voice. Jill gave him a surprised, slightly disturbed look, but he didn't much care. He had always wanted to live in a place with a carpet. He liked the feel of it beneath his bare feet.

"Well…maybe you're not all you appear, little button." Jill muttered, peering intently into his face. She would find nothing. Sam had long ago learnt how to mask his true identity.

"Is anyone?" He quipped, with a charming smile. Jill laughed again, slid a large, heavy iron key into the lock on the door and swung the door open, ushering Sam inside.

"I guess not. Anyway, here we are. It's relatively clean, apart from the blood, like I said. There's a screen door that separates the bed from the rest, makes it feel like its two rooms 'stead o one, y'know?"

Sam stepped inside, feeling the odd urge to snigger as the floorboard creaked beneath his feet. The walls were a plain, creamy coloured plaster, no wallpaper, completely blank. Perfect. A fresh start. Half the floor was dark coloured wooden floorboards, and half a pale, pastel green carpet. Separating the two halves was a translucent canvas screen, plain and yellowing, like the walls, one of those folding ones a little like those Chinese oriental things. Through the gap in the screen Sam could see a bed with a mattress but no sheets.

On the other side of the screen, the floorboard side there was a huge, old fashioned wardrobe, a sink in the corner and an odd looking cough the same colour as the carpet with clawed wooden feet. Beside that, a standard lamp on the floor plugged into the only plug socket in the room.

Sam grinned so hard he felt his face might split in two.

"It's perfect. Can I fix it up a bit?"

His mind was already reeling from the possibilities. If he could get hold of some paint, maybe some material for curtains, a rug, a tv…it would be perfect. He could make it perfect.

Jill, meanwhile, was already at the door, a bottle halfway out of her bag.

"Long as you don't destroy it, I don't give rat's ass what ya do. Communal bathroom's just down the hallway. The apartment opposite yours is empty. Don't think it'll be filled for a while, either."

Sam knew he really shouldn't ask. The answer was likely to be as vague and mysterious as most of the answers he received around here.

"Why?" Damn it. He would have to learn to control his own mouth. Jill simply rolled her eyes, looking suddenly exhausted, and far older than she should.

"Ya don't want to know, button. Ya need anything, head down the to the bottom floor, the door with the horseshoe and rabbit foot on it. Here's your key." She tossed it across the expanse of floorboards, and he caught it deftly in his left hand "I'll kill ya if you lose it."

"Thanks."

She had already left, leaving the door swinging behind her. Feeling the rush of adrenaline caused by the excitement of the day, Sam felt suddenly bone-weary. Yawning widely, he stumbled over to the bare mattress and flopped down onto it, tossing his suitcase carelessly under it. He could set about fixing the place up in the morning.

Curling onto his side with his back facing away from the door – old habits die hard – he drifted into the first contented sleep he had had in a long, long while.

&&&&&&&&

"Aw, fuck."

Sam abruptly jerked awake, to a resonating clatter and a soft curse. His heart stood still, and he peered carefully into the pitch darkness, trying to keep his breathing even. There was someone in his room.

In the half light as his eyes got used to the darkness, he could just make out the figure of a man, moving slowly around towards the side of his bed. When a silhouetted hand reached out towards him, he lashed out with a strangled cry, only to find his forearm snatched and held in an iron grip.

"Woah, easy tiger!"

Said a deep, saturated voice laced with amusement. The man chuckled. A musical, soft, yet terrifying sound. Sam, feeling as though his limbs had turned to lead, allowed his head to take over.

"Who are you and what the FUCK are you doing in my room!" He managed, it coming out a lot squeakier and less menacing than he had intended.

The outline of the man's shoulders moved up then down unconcernedly in a shrug, and abruptly, Sam's arm was released. It hung in mid air, too stiff to drop.

"Hey, hey, no need to get anal. I was just curious to check out the newest instalment, cheeks."

Sam blinked. His mind was completely blank. A myriad of unformed questions plagued him, but all he could do was listen to the pounding of his own heart in his chest. Somehow, the realisation was unmistakable.

"You're Dean." He managed to whisper, hoarsely, sounding a lot braver than he felt, which wasn't saying much.

"Bingo!" There was a snap of fingers, and in the semi-darkness, white enamel flashed a charming smile; Sam could only stare, mesmerized. The man, Dean, spread his arms high above his head and looked around as if accepting adoring applause.

"The one and only."

Overcome with a petrifying burst of panic, Sam blindly snatched the nearest available object, a small table lamp, and brought it slamming into the side of Dean's head with all the strength he could muster.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review, feedback is love.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: SO sorry for the wait, I've been incredibly busy with my return to non-holiday schedule and all. Another huge round of applause to all who reviewed, it means a lot! **

**Warnings: Slash, but it's so slow and light you can probably only see it if you squint. Vampires, violence, blood, foul language and booze.**

**Enjoy!**

**3.**

"OW! FUCK…son of a…agh…"

Dean immediately jerked away, reeling, hands flying to the side of his head. Sam blinked. His hands, suspended in mid-air in front of him and grasping two fractured shards of china (RIP lamp), shook ever so slightly.

He stared as, in the half light, Dean drew his hand away from his head, wincing, a perfectly straight cut stretching from his temple to his left eye. Crimson welled and spilled over the torn skin, and what he had just done was suddenly driven home to him with resounding clarity.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry!" He blurted, flinging his long legs over the edge of the bed and standing, the better to see the wound "You're not bleeding are you?" _Dumb question,_ his mind sniped at him, and was ignored "Can you see? Oh God…"

What if he had _blinded _the guy or something? Shit. Okay, so he _had _broken in and invaded Sam's personal space, but that was no reason to act like a freaking maniac! In fact, he was surprised at himself. He was usually better in situations like this. Hell, he'd dealt with them his whole life, why did he lose it now?

_Because,_ a little voice whispered in his ear, _because he's like nothing you've ever come across before; because you're afraid, of this place and of this life and of him._ Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, goose bumps rising up his bare arms. He shivered.

Meanwhile, Dean was busy nursing his bruised ego (not to mention head) blissfully unaware of Sam's inner crisis. As far as he was concerned, he had politely greeted a fellow tenant in his unique (in other words, downright vulgar) manner, and was rewarded with a lamp to the head.

Understandably, he was not a happy chappy at this precise moment in time.

"I think you broke my freakin' skull!" He groused, pouting, and Sam tore his eyes away from the cut to look at his feet, wringing his hands in front of him nervously. Despite all the weight the world had placed on him, in his heart of hearts he was a gentle soul; he never would want to hurt anyone.

That didn't mean to say he hadn't, though. Nor that he wouldn't ever again.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me…you just…and I…" He trailed off, shoulders slumping, eyes averted. Dean blinked, raised an eyebrow, and looked his would-be assailant over with the aid of the moonlight spilling through the curtainless window.

The kid was…he frowned, surprised to find difficulty to express this stranger in words. Quite tall. Thin, a little on the gangly side, but with a good build on the whole. His dark brown hair, tousled from sleep, seemed to spill itself artistically around the boy's head like it had a life of its own. A symmetrical face; awesome cheekbones, cute nose.

"Do you greet _everyone _you meet like this?" Dean asked, tone dripping with attitude, mouth on autopilot as he continued to study the kid intently "Cause I gotta say, you must be mighty unpopular with the general public if you do…"

Had it not been for the eyes, Dean would have dismissed the boy as your average, everyday jailbait material. Deep brown; projecting guilt and sorrow and something inescapably complex. Guarded. Broken, yet sturdy. He seemed all at once to be both chaos and order drawn together in a confused tangle.

And Dean couldn't read him. He didn't understand this boy at all. Catching Dean in the head precisely where it would hurt the most like a pro, then going all jittery over it? It was like the kid himself didn't know who he was.

Slowly, his lips rose in a lopsided smile. Interesting. Very interesting.

Sam's attention, meanwhile, had drifted elsewhere. Staring down at the mess of china on the floor, his face fell. Fuck it. Fuck it **ALL**. Why did nothing in his life ever stay whole for long?

"That was the only lamp, too…" He said, sadly, feeling disturbingly cut up about this loss. He would have to manage in semi-darkness for a while unless he could find some kind of furniture shop, and pronto.

"Hey! Oi!" Snapping fingers appeared before his downcast eyes, and he blinked, wrinkling his nose as his mourning was abruptly interrupted "'Scuse me? Focusing back on the dude you nearly CONCUSSED here!"

Dean was clearly affronted that his new playmate had decided the immediate death of a lamp he had met mere hours before was more important than HIM…than DEAN, the one, the only, the almighty!

"I'm sorry…" Sam repeated, gazing at the blood trickling down Dean's face with an oddly mesmerised expression. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Dean reached over and patted the traumatised kid on the cheek, grinning so widely it lit up the room.

For some reason…he didn't want to see that look in the kid's eyes.

NO.

He couldn't do this again. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, **FUCK. **No, no, no, no, NO. He had made this mistake before; shit, he had watched the corpse being taken away just this morning. He'd only just got back from dulling the pain with lust and alcohol. No. He wouldn't do this again. Keep cold. Keep a distance. Don't get attached.

"Geez, if your face droops any more it'll fall right off. And that'd be a downright shame." The kid blinked, confusion filling his kind face, making it shine. How the hell did he end up here? "Brighten up, cheeks, I'll live."

Sam was thoroughly bemused by this guy; what was he, some kind of retired actor, or something? He slid with ease from wounded, to smug, to encouraging to snide to…well, he couldn't list them all. The dude was like some kind of chameleon. Smoke and mirrors, party tricks.

He didn't know what he was thinking; standing here, having something close to a conversation with a guy who had pentagrams carved into his front door. He felt a cold slither of fear pierce his gut, and rubbed his arm absently.

"Oh." He muttered, at a sudden loss for words "Good. That's good." And it was. He was genuinely glad this guy was okay. But now, he wanted him to get the hell out of his apartment. He needed time to gather his thoughts, collect himself back up from the mess he had made in the panic of the past few minutes. It had been years since he had felt so powerless.

"Um…what _are _you doing in my apartment?"

Dean shrugged, rolling his shoulders slowly, the exposed skin of his collarbone deepening into two twin hollows and then stretching again. Sam shook his head. He felt light-headed, dizzy. Sleepy. The air was filled with a sweet yet sharp smell which was filling his senses, lulling them sensually and automatically relaxing his fraught nerves. It felt good; his brain felt dull. He wanted to sleep for a month, maybe more.

"Like I said, kiddet, I was curious. That ain't illegal."

_Arrogant prick _the little voice muttered grumpily, but Sam ignored it, running a still shaky hand over his forehead, then pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long, slow breath.

"No, but breaking and entering is. How on earth did you get in here?"

There was a long pause; Dean tilted his head to the side, his spiky hair casting needle-like shadows across his carved features.

"I could ask you the same question."

Sam blinked.

"Huh?" He said, thickly, his tongue feeling heavy and clumsy in his mouth. Maybe he was sick. Coming down with something. The room was cold, yet heat seemed to radiate from Dean like the heart of a fire.

"Never mind. So. You my new upsie?" Dean enquired, rubbing his hands together and glancing excitedly around the apartment like a little kid on Christmas morning. Sam frowned.

"Upsie?" He repeated, quietly, wondering why he was even going along with this less than ordinary conversation. Dean rolled his eyes as though Sam was stupid, and gestured with his fingers as he explained.

"Person in here is upsie," He jerked a forefinger up, stabbing the air "and that dry git below me is downsie." He jerked his other forefinger down, towards the floor "Savvy?"

"You're weird." Sam said suddenly, then sniffed the air, catching the scent of alcohol and copper and that sweet scent again "And you smell like crap. Have you been drinking?"

Dean laughed raucously at the accusation, retrieved a small, engraved metal flask from the inside of his jacket and toasted Sam before chugging enthusiastically.

"Can't remember a time when I haven't, to be honest, cheeks. So…"

He tucked the flask away, then without warning vaulted over the metal railing of the bed and threw himself down onto the creaking mattress. Stunned, Sam could only stare as Dean wriggled and placed his hands behind his head, sighed contentedly, then looked expectantly up at him.

"What are you even doing here, little white picket fence? You look like you'd belong in some uptown fancy college or something."

Wrong, Sam thought darkly.

"I don't." He snapped, folding his arms defensively across his chest. Dean looked hard at him, his grin faltering just slightly.

"Don't what?" He asked. Sam turned away, closing his eyes, welcoming the blessed solitude the darkness behind his eyelids brought.

"I don't belong there." He muttered, softly, tone impassive. For what felt like hours, there was nothing but darkness and silence, before Dean's expressive voice cut the quiet like a knife.

"Then where do you belong?"

There was something hidden in that question. Some small hint of…understanding? No. Nobody understood. Nobody could possibly understand him. Ever. And he didn't need some egoistic psycho to pity him.

"Don't know. Hopefully here, but that's-"

He felt a wave of unexpected anger, and whirled on his intruder, hands balling into fists at his side.

"Wait, why am I even _talking _to you? That woman – I mean Jill, said…ugh. Well. Anyway, kindly get out."

Dean didn't even blink.

"No." He said idly, simply, eying the nails of his left hand with disdain. Sam deflated, opened his mouth, closed it, then spluttered out:

"Excuse me?"

Dean leapt from the bed, stretched languidly like a cat, and looked around the apartment, eyes falling on the suitcase partly concealed beneath the bed.

"I figured I'd have a poke around, then leave you to your basking. You got any clothes or bits and bobs or anything?"

Sam stood still for a few minutes while Dean 'poked around', eying the bloodstain on the carpet and the broken lamp and the jacket Sam had left hanging over the back of the couch. Disturbingly, Dean seemed to be sniffing the place, but Sam was already almost accepting towards his fellow tenant's oddities.

"The landlady said you had something to do with the last tenant. Henry."

Dean froze rigid. All warmth seemed to drain from the air, and Sam found it suddenly difficult to draw breath. He realised, too late, that he had said the wrong thing. His lungs burned, the dizzy spell returning, cold flooding his veins like ice. He swayed, grabbed the iron bed knob to keep himself from falling.

"That bitch whore. Shit. Should'a known…man." Dean whispered, the words sounding hazy to Sam "This sucks outta hell."

Suddenly, Dean's face was right in front of his own, so close Sam could feel the skin of his face prickle and burn from the sting of his breath. The intensity of Dean's presence was overbearing, claustrophobic. The pressure increased in his chest.

"Oh, cheeks?" Dean said softly, too softly, menace filling his tone "Don't ever mention him again. Ever. Or you'll wake up the next morning with your tonsils rammed down your throat. Clear?"

Dark spots were filling his vision, his eyes drooping, his nose and mouth filled with that sickly sweet smell. Dean's face slid in and out of focus, the malice in them suddenly fading to vague concern.

Sam wasn't aware his legs had given way until two strong hands gripped his arms, holding him upright. His head lolled forward.

"Kid?"

Coarse fingers grabbed his chin, forced him to look up, and he gasped as a sharp pain in his head sent his senses reeling. The pressure was slowly dwindling as he clung to the reality of Dean's golden-green eyes. Pretty. A pretty colour, he thought, then groaned. He must be going mad.

"Hey, spacey! Wakey wakey time. C'mon, I wasn't serious. Well…maybe a bit." There was a pause, as Sam drew deep, cool, gulping breaths "Cheeks?"

"Sam." He gasped out through gritted teeth, gathering strength in his legs and leaning against the wall, pulling his arms away from Dean's grip.

"Huh?" Dean blinked in confusion, an odd reversal of roles, and Sam pushed him away as he stood unsteadily.

"Sam. It's Sam."

Dean looked him over, as though committing what had transpired to memory in order to peruse it later. His eyes had darkened, not suspicious, just curious.

"Sam…?" He asked, inquiringly, clearly expecting the courtesy of a surname to boot. Sam snorted derisively.

"Just Sam."

Dean folded his arms and shifted his weight lopsidedly, that grin flaring back to life with an intensity that was practically blinding. Sam was horrified to find that he had almost _missed _it.

"Well 'Just Sam', I am the almighty, the infamous, the bombastic Dean. And you'd better get used to me."

Sam rolled his eyes. This whole place was crazy. Completely, utterly, loony-bin crazy. And worst of all, he liked it. He felt more at home than ever before.

"Like that'll happen anytime soon." He muttered, then looked Dean over suspiciously "So you're not a serial killer."

Dean grinned all the wider at his bluntness.

"Nope!" He said, cheerfully, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Or a rapist?"

"Hell no, I have standards."

Not sure whether he had been insulted or not, Sam decided to let that comment pass "Could've fooled me. And I am not going to be strangled in my bed?"

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight again.

"Not unless you piss me off, cheeks." He said, as though addressing the state of the weather. Strangely, Sam did not feel at all threatened by him. Confused, yes. Wary, hell yes. But he knew, somehow, Dean wasn't going to hurt him.

"Is that likely?" He asked, and Dean laughed, as though Sam had said something silly.

"Not really. You're not the kind of person who could piss me off. Ever. I doubt you could intimidate a lethargic, constipated snail."

Now absolutely positive that he had been insulted, Sam considered objecting when a wave of exhaustion overtook him. Fuck, but he was tired. All this confrontation was wearing him thin.

"Can I go back to sleep now?" He said, rubbing his eyes, and something softened in Dean's face.

"Sure thing, cheeks. I'll see ya bright and early and chipper."

He turned energetically on his heel and strode to the door, humming a quiet tune as he went. Dumbfounded by his intruder's sudden obedience, Sam felt more than a little put out. Then, what Dean had said registered. _I'll see ya?_

"Wait…what?" He said, dreading the explanation to come. Dean leant against the doorway, regarding Sam with an unreadable look, that damned smirk still firmly in place.

"I like you. You're interesting." He said, more to himself than to Sam "I'll take ya on a tour of the town tomorrow, all expenses paid! I'll be here at nine."

"But-" Sam protested, but Dean had already whirled out of the door and almost out of sight, a single hand waving a gratingly exuberant farewell.

"Sayanara, cheek-chan!" He called, before his footsteps faded from the hallway and Sam heard Dean leaping down the stairs. A door slammed below him. Silence.

"What the hell just happened?"

Sam exclaimed to the room at large, but received no answer. Groaning, he flopped back onto the bed, head pounding and his entire body aching with fatigue which ran deeper than physical pain. But somehow, he felt elated. Even optimistic.

With Dean around, life in this place wouldn't ever be boring, of that he was certain. Not in the slightest. Despite himself, the guy intrigued him. More than anyone had ever done so in his whole life. He supposed that was a good thing. All things considered, it might turn out all right in the end. God, he hoped so.

**A/N: 'Sayanara' means 'goodbye' in Japanese, and the honorific 'chan' is used in Japan as an expression of endearment. Naughty Dean! **

**Sorry again for the wait. Thanks for reading! Please review, feedback makes the world go round. **


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